


She Will Be Loved

by LadyProto



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, not detailed sex, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/pseuds/LadyProto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York is gone and in the dark Wash can make a decent substitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Will Be Loved

Her feet are bare. 

That's my first clue that it's going to be a long night. She's normally in her combat boots, legs tensed and ready to hit the field at a moments notice. But she's already let her defenses down, and I can tell by the way her toes meet the concrete base in curled complacency. It's past midnight, and her sobriety is fading fast. There's a bottle of vodka in her right hand and its hanging down beside her right hip. She's ready to be comforted, ready to let down her walls - but it's not me she's wanting to let in.

Her fiery red hair hangs down loose and free. Her eyes chaotically search my face for understanding and she must see it because she throws her arms around me, bringing the bottle of vodka down hard in between my shoulder blades. I know what's going to happen, and I accept my fate like I accepted her orders in another life. I'll always be there to help her, even if her heart and body belong to someone else.

"I missed you, York" she says the wrong name into my ear but I don't correct her. She kisses me, roughly gnawing at my lips like a dying man gasps for air. She's getting what she wants tonight, and I'm too tired to push her away. I play the part she wants, nipping on her neck with a confidence I don't actually have.

I pull her shirt off easily, and hold her close, her soft round breasts warm against my chest. I don't know if he would have held her like this, but I will now. She was beautiful once I think, though neither of us are easy to look at any more. It's like we've aged for those that didn't get the chance to grow old, and we hold the scars as twisted and traumatized brains. I've become the weary one, and she's a ghost of loss and pent up emotions that can only be coaxed out with alcohol and scissored fingers. I know she doesn't want me -- she's never pretended to. And while she pretends that my body is little taller, my hair a little scruffier, and my attitude a little more confident, I pretend that she's actually coming to see me, and it's my name she moans when I run my tongue between her legs, and nip at the scar on her hip.

I have memorized every twitching motion of her body. How her voice breaks into a crescendo when I use my tongue but goes into drawn out whine when I use my fingers. She's a biter, a screamer, an emotional mess of complexity and teeth marks. I know that she likes to be on her back, to feel my weight and feel like she's protected from the outside world but I also know when she's had enough, when the alcohol fades and morning starts to break and she pushes me away

I try to make it good for her, I try to mimic the motions he would have done. But I can't be that carefree smart-talking guy that she loved. I'm me -- I'm Washington -- and its been ten years of firefights and foxholes and I'm tired. I'm tired of the fact that I'll wake up alone, clutching at the fading warmth on empty sheets, I'm tired that she'll cover up the places I've been on her body with turtle necks and baggy cargos. I'm too tired to be her emotional support. I'm too tired to be her fuck toy. She's still chasing ghosts and I'm too tired to run away


End file.
